Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Camp Stove

Who made this salty soup? This grease patch? Who?
Who made these fried potatoes? I can't eat
This garbage. Pig's feet? Really? Chicken feet?
It's bad enough they're trying to make do
With blackened hard-boiled eggs and wombat stew,
Without toes in the bowl. I can't repeat
The names of dishes offered, or the meat
Mistreated, all the things I couldn't chew.

The local guidelines don't seem clear enough.
I'm full, but full only of wrath and ire.
Take these great slabs of burnt lamb from the fire:
They're charred, and ashy, and insanely tough,
And probably taste like a twice-broiled scruff.
You said it would be fine. You are a liar.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home